


The Farmer and the Viper

by LynnDenbaum



Series: lynn's messiest GO oneshots in all of history [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A little angst, Aziraphale rethinks, Happy Ending, Mention of victim blaming, No Beta, Post canon, Regret, The Tale of the Scorpion and the Frog, We fall like Crowley, aesop, can be read as platonic, if you want to, mention of bad morales, no edit, not much, the farmer and the viper, up to you, we fall like raphael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 14:50:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20427743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnDenbaum/pseuds/LynnDenbaum
Summary: Aziraphale thinks about the hypocracy he has expressed over the years.He rethinks things.A not ending world kind of sets things in motion and tends to crumble down barriers.





	The Farmer and the Viper

**Author's Note:**

> I always thought Aesops fable "The farmer and the viper" had a shitty morale.  
I came to the conclusion Aziraphale would think so, too.

****  
****  
In over 6000 Years on earth, Aziraphale had encountered many tales.   
Different morales, different outcomes, different authors or characters.   
Some of them told, some of them written, some of them seen.   
He had met so many people, experienced so many stories, felt so many things, that it was hard to keep track on every last one of them.   
His memories kind of blurred together sometimes and the only distinctive features he could make out were a swirl of red like poppy flowers on an open field, buried amidst the softly swaying wheat ears and the glowing hue of the weakening, softly golden turning still-summer sun of september.   
Yes, that was his image for red and gold.    
Red hair and golden eyes. Red blooms and golden skies.   
The leaves turning all colourful as the year progresses, as summer turns to autumn with all subtlety available to not yet show the oncoming cold of winter, but slowly, ever so slightly, taking the heat of august away.   
  


And still.   
  
The angel’s eyes softly glided from the desk he was sitting in front of, over towards his bookshops’ window, where, outside on the pavement he could actually see the multicoloured impressions of the third season, sprawling all over, covering the floor like silent witnesses of summers’ end.   
Autumn had always been the season for him to rethink.   
like the trees shook off their leaves, Aziraphale tried to shake off bad thoughts and feelings, tried to reflect on himself, while sipping a wonderfully hot tea of cocoa, or rather tea.   
Maybe reading a book, or four to collect his thoughts.   
  
This year however, was special.   
They had averted the apocalypse not more than three months ago.   
They had experienced the most  _ intense  _ story, the world had ever seen and  _ it did not end there _ !   
After this, and breaking bonds with their former head offices, he and Crowley had a lot rethinking to do.   
And just now, that was what Aziraphale did.   
  
The open page in front of him was illustrated with little,very carefully prepared, but frankly, slightly distracting pictures.   
Not, that he didn’t appreciate the effort the drawing must have cost, but he just preferred his books and stories without unnecessary images.   
The book was old, not a first edition, but still very old. It’s pages already wilting and yellowing out and crumbling at the edges, despite every effort to keep it in ‘tip-top condition’.   
With a soft sigh from his lips, the angel’s fingers caressed a small symbol of a viper, entangled in its own body. Yes, those drawings really were distracting.   
  
This was a breaking point for Aziraphale.   
  
This was one of the bad thoughts he had never had the heart to address before. One of the things, he should have rethought ages ago, but never did. Not in one single of all the autumns he had spent in this world.   
He had rather shoved it away, repressed the thought.   
But not anymore.   
Now this was important.   
  
Because this was about Crowley and a cornfield full of poppies in the late summer sun.   
This was about a golden shine on falling leaves and about a farmer, a natter, a scorpion and a frog.   
This was about the hypocrite of an angel, that was him.   
  
The story Aziraphale was rereading for the sixth time already in the last half of an hour went as followed:   
  
“ One winter a Farmer found a Viper frozen and numb with cold, and out of pity picked it up and placed it in his bosom. The Viper was no sooner revived by the warmth than it turned upon its benefactor and inflicted a fatal bite upon him; and as the poor man lay dying, he cried, "I have only got what I deserved, for taking compassion on so villainous a creature.”   
_ -Aesop  _   
  
There were many different variations of that story throughout history.   
Sometimes the farmer made it back to his house and warned his family “Do not take pity in the wicked” sometimes he thought “the wicked show no gratitude”   
But it all carried the same morale: A beast cannot escape its nature.   
Bad is bound to happen, when you interact with the bad.   
Don’t trust the serpent.   
  
The angel stretched his shaking hands towards another book on his desk, tenderly stroking its leathery envelope.   
He opened it and swallowed at the sight of a picture that showed a scorpion sitting on the back of a frog.   
  
The story was quite similar, but this time the two participants were equals of sorts.   
Not a human, that should have known better than to trust a mindless animal, but another animal, a frog, that conversed with the deadly scorpion and trusting its motives instead of just being kind.   
The stories were similar, yet different, but again, they had the same motive.   
“One cannot defy their nature”   
Aziraphale didn’t even have to read it. He knew every word by heart.   
  
And he hated it.

Everything about these stories. He had always hated it, with a deepness that he hadn’t thought possible for an angel.   
  
He despised it, because how could he not?   
Not only, that this implied, that people weren’t able to change, no.   
It also was a deep, unconscious kind of victim blaming that lead to modern people saying: “She had it coming for wearing such a short skirt”   
Or: “They should have known better than to speak their mind, they should have known, that their partner would hit them for that”   
It just excused everything the culprits did with “they couldn’t go against their nature” “They couldn’t help it”. “Don’t judge them, it’s your own fault for being so trusting”   
  


And that was just wrong on so many levels, Aziraphale couldn’t even start to list them all.   
But it was not only that.   
  
The morale of the stories also implied, that people born on the “wrong side” or “raised by harmful people” couldn’t help but ending up criminals themselves.    
They were helpless against their nature.   
  
In many a beautiful night spend with poets in the old times, they had discussed this particular fable in great detail and Aziraphale had always taken a stand against it.   
  
“People can change!” He had called out, more than once. “People can grow to goodness. You just have to trust them sometimes. And even if you get bitten, you should not judge everyone else on this!”   
He had been called naive, dumb and too-kind-hearted-to-still-be-alive, but he stood his ground.   
Knowing deep in his heart that he wasn’t naive or dumb or too kindhearted, but, in fact, a huge hypocrite.   
  
Because how could he say that, how could he defend the victim, defend the power of choice, while also treating his best and oldest friend with the cold untrustiness that the farmer told his family to show future vipers?   
How could he judge Crowley by the golden rules of “one cannot defy his nature”, when everything the demon had ever said or done to him, was entirely well meant and in his favor?   
  
What had the serpent of Eden ever done to earn his suspiciousness, except for being a demon?   
  
And that gnawed on him like filthy rats in the tunnels beneath London gnawed on moldy bread and old scraps.   
Because that was how he felt. Filthy and like scraps.   
  
And now that he had finally admitted that to himself, he didn’t know how to proceed.   
“run away with me!”, Crowley had said some long months, it seemed like a different live to him now, ago. Desperately trying to make Aziraphale understand, that angels, demons all those labels, that they were just that. Labels.   
Put onto grocery boxes to make the process of transporting, the logistics easier.   
To be able to tell them apart.   
But why would you need to tell them apart if they were going into the same pot at the end anyways?   
His demon had understood this. He hadn’t.   
Not back then.   
  
But now he did and it hurt him  _ so _ much.   
  
Just as Aziraphale wanted to grab his phone, the wonderfully old one with the circular dial that Crowley had given him several years ago, the bell above his bookshops’ door chimed joyfully.   
Odd, considering that Aziraphale had miracled the lock closed 2 hours ago.   
But not odd enough, knowing his demon companion, who tended to pop in uninvited.   
  
“Crowley dear”, he called, while not-quite-hurriedly shoving the books back into a shelf, not that the serpent would read them, when he would find them lying around openly, but the slight pang of guilt still in Azirapahles chest made him do it nonetheless.   
He had just started addressing that matter with himself. It would take a while, to heal.   
But at least he had done the first step.   
“I was just about to give you a call.”   
  
The dark shades of one slender demon popped around the corner of a particularly inconveniently located bookshelf, that obscured the line of sight to the front door.   
“You did? Well no need to do that anymore.”   
The readhead grinned as he sauntered over to the angel, that was leaning back now, smiling genuinely, stretching his arms a little in order to loosen cramped muscles.   
He felt better immediately after seeing his friend.   
  
“I thought we could go out, take a walk, dine at the Ritz? Or if you prefer, there is a new little thai restaurant in Shoreditch. I heard they make remarkable Thai-Curry.”   
“Thai would be wonderful, my dear.”   
  
Soft laughter and giggles filled the London-Soho air on a beautiful late-summer-not-yet-autumn evening, when an angel and his demon made their way to a shiny black Bentley that parked, unnoticed by passer-bys, in the middle of the street.   
  


  
  
In the end, Aziraphale thought, It all didn’t matter.    
Angels, demon, serpents, frogs. In the end the only thing that mattered was the smiling Crowley next to him and his own racing heart.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to leave comments or kudos, if you like!
> 
> I am not native in English.  
Should you find any mistakes, please let my know.


End file.
